


The Adventure of the Haunted House

by orphan_account



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Fluff, Gen, On the case!, Though John does get a little angsty
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-10-28
Updated: 2011-10-28
Packaged: 2017-10-25 00:54:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,020
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/269888
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John got injured on a case with Sherlock. Now, cross, drugged, and housebound, he does what he does best: blog.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Adventure of the Haunted House

**Author's Note:**

> Sherlock and John aren't mine. I've only got a tenuous hold on Mr. Garet, and I invented him.

Wednesday, 7 September  
4:38 PM  
Private Post

To be honest, it is surprising to me that we have gone this long without a medical emergency here at 221B Baker Street. What is surprising to me is that I am the one having it. Given the loose and cavalier attitude that Sherlock has to the health and safety concerns of normal human beings, I would have thought that it would be him who was housebound and bedridden. But, lo, here I am. I broke some bones in my leg while on a case with Sherlock, and my doctor says that I will be bedridden for the next two months, at the very least. They have me on some very heavy medication.

I got home from the hospital three days ago. I am bored out of my mind. God, I have never been so close to understanding what drives Sherlock to shooting walls. I'm only writing up this case to keep myself from setting fire to my casts. I apologize in advance for the length. I've got a lot of time to kill.

When this case came in, I was relieved. Not only had Sherlock not had a case in several weeks (which would have been bad enough,) but he had also managed somehow fall temporarily out of favor with that sweet pathologist at Bart's. The flat was free of human remains and "experiments," and Sherlock was becoming unbearable to live with. He refused to leave the couch, demanding tea and books to be delivered to him. So, when a man showed up asking after Sherlock Holmes, the consulting detective, I was ecstatic, if only because it would make Sherlock happy.

Our potential client's name was James Garet. He was a small, owl-like man, with large, wire rimmed glasses. He was a bit taller than me, but he seemed to shrink when people looked at him, and gave me the rare treat of towering over someone.

"Y-you are Sherlock Holmes, am I right?" He seemed to have a bit of trouble starting his sentences; he started all of them twice, faintly the first time and weakly the second. He didn't seem to have more than that in him.

"Yes. And this is my associate, Dr. Watson-"

"Y-yes, I know. I read his blog."

Sherlock shot me a withering look, and returned to his examination of Mr. Garet. "Yes, well, who doesn't these days. Mr. Garet, what seems to be the trouble?"

His trouble was fascinating, though his stutter somewhat hindered his storytelling. I'll paraphrase, to spare you readers.

Mr. Garet came to us regarding a house he had recently inherited from his father. Apparently, Mr. Garet Senior had been a hard and dangerous man, who had lost contact with his son shortly after he moved out of the family home. His father had owned several houses that never seemed to be in use when he was a child, and it was one of those houses that he inherited. The house was beautiful, and Mr. Garet was thankful to have it. It made him happy to know that his father still thought of him.

He visited the house for the first time the previous weekend. His intention had been to stay in the house as long as it took to finish paperwork and decide what he wanted to do with it. He did not make it that long.

The house was deeply unsettling to everyone who spent any amount of time in it. As a secret fan of horror films and ghost stories, Mr. Garet immediately sensed that something was not right about his house. Spatially, it did not make sense. Rooms were considerably smaller than they should be, and the ceilings were not of a uniform height throughout the house. The whole house creaked more than Garet thought was normal; sometimes he heard what he swore were footsteps that sounded as though they were coming from in the same room.

The house was fully furnished in the tasteful fashion of an elderly aunt. There were even ornaments on the shelves and articles of clothing in the closets. In the time that he stayed in the house, certain of those objects traveled around the building, sometimes appearing in one room and sometimes in another. To Mr. Garet, as an anxious young man in a strange house, this was the last straw. Once he was certain that the objects were traveling, he couldn't get out of there fast enough.

"I-i don't know what else to think, Mister Holmes. My father was n-not a nice man. He was involved in some things that I don't want to think about. Awful things, and to a lot of people-"

"Mr, Garet, you don't expect me to tell you that your house is haunted, do you?"

"I e-expect you to prove to me that it isn't," whispered Mr. Garet.

 

And now, I must dash. The rest can be told tomorrow. I just heard Sherlock get home and I need to start a text message campaign to get him up here with some dinner. He's been acting so strangely since the accident. It's like he blames me. Or himself. In any event, he's avoiding me at a very inopportune time. I haven't seen much of him since I got back from the hospital. He leaves the flat early in the morning and leaves me breakfast, which is really decent of him, but then he barely speaks when he brings food in the evenings.

I don't know where I stand any more.

Maybe I shouldn't post that... Harry told me that there is a private function on this thing. I'll do that. And delete all this angst rubbish when I'm not drugged and cross.

Thursday, 8 September  
5:13  
Private Post

Oh god. That last entry made me sound like such a spoiled teenager. I'm glad I didn't post that rubbish. God, these painkillers are doing a number on me. I didn't mean to complain so much about Sherlock. It's thanks to him that I'm going to be ok after these casts come off, so I should be thankful. He's a busy man. Apparently he has a new case on. I can't demand his attention just because I'm bored.

Besides, yesterday he came up here to work on his laptop. He just tramped up here and settled himself on the floor leaning up against my bed without a word, as though this was his usual pattern of behavior. Every so often, he'd fill me in on the details of his case, like he usually would when my shifts at the clinic got in the way of me assisting him on cases. He likes to hear the words that solve the puzzle out loud, and I make a good sounding board.

When I started to drift off to sleep, Sherlock got up and looked at me awkwardly. He's such an elegant man, usually. It's actually unsettling to see him do something without grace. But there he was, laptop under his arm and searching for the right words.

"I'm sorry, John," he said slowly, shifting his weight. "I'm sorry that I was avoiding you. That wasn't... Well, I'll try and keep you company."

"That's nice of you. Thank you, Sherlock-"

"You need rest," He was suddenly all business. "You should sleep. I'll leave you to it."

He swished out of the room before I could say anything. I wonder what brought it all on. It was very decent of him, but it was also so sudden.

 

So! Back to the case.

After Mr. Garet left, Sherlock seized his laptop and began typing furiously. He spoke rapidly, in his characteristic steady stream of narrative.

"I know this man, John. Arnold Garet. He was suspected by the Yard for everything from smuggling to forgery and tax-evasion. Garet was known for harsh treatment of his own men. When he died, his entire operation went missing. Police assumed that they were killed to keep the secrets of the gang. Don't you remember the papers?"

I didn't.

Sherlock pursed his lips. "That is what Mr. Garet was referring to when he intimated that the house was haunted."

"Do you think the house is haunted?"

"Of course not. But whoever is doing these things is obviously trying to make him think so. I think we need to have a look at this house."

We didn't talk much on the ride there. Sherlock was busy on his phone, texting his contacts in the criminal classes, and I was thinking about ghosts. I'm not a superstitious man, and I certainly can handle myself in unfamiliar situations, but poor Mr. Garet was terrified of whatever was in the house. With Sherlock, the answer is usually much more dangerous and extreme than what we initially suppose. I was wary of what could possibly be in store in this outlandish case.

Mr. Garet met us there; he was still staying in his flat in the city. "I'd r-rather not go in there, of you don't mind, Mr H-"

Sherlock cut him off, never taking his eyes off the house. "No, your presence will not be strictly necessary. Feel free to stay outside." He approached the house, drifting his fingers lightly over the stone and pressing his ear to the wall. "Are you coming, John?"

"Of course." I flashed Mr. Garet a sympathetic look. "Look, we'll sort this out. You'll be holding house parties here in no time."

Mr. Garet did not look convinced, but he nodded to me. As I turned to where Sherlock was waiting on the porch, I saw him cross himself furtively before scuttling off property.

Sherlock took his time examining every room in the house. He had assigned Garet a list of all the objects that had moved during his stay, as well as of the dimensions of the rooms that had disturbed him. He examined all the ornaments, whether or not they were on the list. I could practically hear the whirr of his brain as he weighed a hairbrush in his hand, trying to find the connections. He measured each room, examining every inch of the walls and tapping them gently with his long fingers. His face was impassive and intense, and he seemed to have forgotten that I was there. He murmured softly as he worked, too quietly for me to hear. The sound was comforting to me. I must have missed the cases more than I thought I had.  
Sherlock turned to me after the last room and gestured toward the door. We walked out in silence, and met up with Garet across the street.

Sherlock positioned his back to the house. "You are very right to suspect something, Mr. Garet. This house is certainly occupied, but whatever is in your house is as alive as I am."

"So you've worked it out?" I was stunned. He almost always shares the most major clues with me as they come up, and I'll admit that it stung a bit to think that he'd written me out of his processes.

"I should think so. It's best not to talk about it in there. The walls have ears, as the saying goes."

Garet did not look reassured. "A-all I know now is that there really is something! Mr. H-holmes, I can't feel safe in my own house until you help me-"

 

"And help you we shall, Mr. Garet. I have seen everything I need for today. I trust that you will allow us into your home tomorrow as well?"

"Anything you need."

"Excellent."

 

Honestly, it's like he knows when I finish an important part of the story to get home. I hear Sherlock banging around down there. It sounds alarmingly like he's trying to cook. There is a reason why he has an encyclopedic knowledge of take out places in central London. The man can't cook to save his life. He has trouble connecting the chemistry that makes the food work and the tastes that make it edible.

Well, I'll try and get to the rest of this case tomorrow. Sherlock is here with what looks suspiciously like a plate. Where's that "Private" button again...

Friday, 9 September  
3:19  
Public Post

That little sneak was snooping on my blog posts! That's how he knew what I said about him. Oh, I could kill him. IF YOU'RE READING THIS, SHERLOCK, I AM STILL NOT SPEAKING TO YOU. He's taken up residence outside my door with his violin. He's trying to serenade me into complacence. This will not work. He's only out there because it's out of my throwing range; I had been hurling everything I could get a hold of at him until he left the room. Infuriatingly, he's left the door open, so I have to look at his stupid sneaky face whenever I look up from the screen. He's been there since last night.

He came up here yesterday with a cheese sandwich in one hand, his computer in the other, and a stupid smirk on his face.

"Here, John. No chemistry to get distracted with." He passed me the plate. "Just tastes"

"I see that, Sherlock. Thank you. That's very-"

"Decent of me?" His smirk widened.

"Yeah. Thanks."

"Any time, John." He shifted the pillows and books off of the foot of my bed and perched there. "Here we are. Is there anything else I can get for you?"

"You're oddly helpful today. Should I be worried?"

"You're injured. Isn't this what friends do for friends?"

"Is that what's going on here?"

Sherlock tilted his head, flashing me a look that made it clear that he did not feel like he should dignify that with a response. I shrugged, and went back to looking over what I had written that day. Something was not right.

"How did you know about the chemistry, Sherlock?"

"John, I have had a keen interest in chemistry for a very long-"

"You know what I mean. How did you know what I wrote just now?"

"John, you know my methods. Though, this, I concede is more Mycroft's style than my own, it should hardly be a surprise to you that I can read your little blog."

"I can't believe you."

"What else was I supposed to do? You might have been resentful for getting injured on the case.I don't want you to be angry."

"I bloody well am now, Sherlock! Those were private. I hit the private button and everything." And then that git smirked at me again. So I threw my pillows at him. He's been camped out just outside my door with the computer and the violin ever since. He was trying to shout to me the details of how his case worked out, but I started watching a movie on my laptop really loudly to drown him out.

I need to cool off; I think I'll finish writing up this case. I threw my phone at Sherlock last night, and I'm even more bored now that I don't have text messages to keep me company. I didn't know it was possible.

 

The next night, we set out once again to the house. Sherlock filled me in on his deductions on the ride there, while we were safe from listeners in.

"Everything that Garet observed is completely true, John, even if his conclusions are not sound. The dimensions of the rooms, the movement of the objects, the footsteps, all of these things can be explained without resorting to superstition."

"What is causing it, then?"

"Remember Garet senior's gang? They all vanished following his death. The Yard is very keen on finding out where they disappeared to, and I believe that we have found them."

"They're haunting a house?"

"In a manner of speaking."

Garet was waiting for us at the end of the road, out of sight of the house. Solemnly, he handed Sherlock his keys. "I'll be h-here. I d-don't want to get in the way." The poor man looked as though his comfort zone had disappeared off the face of the planet.

"You went back in the house?"

Garet nodded. "I-I thought that maybe you would have scared off whatever it was."

"And there was no change?"

"N-no."

Sherlock and I walked up to the house like secret agents in a Bond film, sticking to the shadows and slinking between cars. It was exhilarating, in a silly way. Silently, Sherlock gestured toward the back of the house, to a shed on the very edge of the property.

"That's where the entrance is," he muttered tersely, with the absolute minimum movement and volume. I looked at him incredulously, but he was already hopping the fence and slinking across the yard. Sighing, I followed suit. I trust Sherlock (when he's not playing spy, that is,) and I trusted that he knew what he was doing.

Inside of the shed, he was already at work moving lawn care equipment gingerly to one side to uncover a large trapdoor fitted into the floor. Silently, he lifted the handle and gestured me in.

Under the trap door was a tunnel that led to the cellar of the house. "This must have been added later. There is no cellar on the original plans," breathed Sherlock behind me. Briefly, I shone my torch into the room, just long enough to see what was inside. There were several tables, set up like a kind of workshop, and two bundles of blankets that I took to be sleeping criminals.

"There they are, Sherlock," I whispered.

"No, that's not it. There's someone else in this house.. Follow me, John." He grabbed my hand, leading me to the entrance of yet another tunnel at the other end of the room. When we were sufficiently far away from the sleeping thugs behind us, he explained. "Did you see behind them? A dumb waiter. It still had remnants of somebody's dinner on it. There is someone in the upper floors of this house, John. It must be their leader. A gang boss would want to delineate the differences in rank between himself and his pawns."

The tunnels he had lead me to climbed up into the house proper. "These account for the loss in area in some rooms, do you see? Here," He pointed to a vent near the floor. "From here, you can see the hairbrush that kept changing locations. It was their method of communication. If it's in view, the shipment is not yet ready. If not, the workers downstairs need more time." We passed a few more of these vents as we climbed up. Sherlock must have memorized the plans of the house, because he strode with purpose, keeping a tight hold on my hand to prevent my getting lost.

When we approached the end of the tunnels, Sherlock turned to me. "I want you to stay here. We mustn't forget about the others downstairs. I'll approach him, and you look out for his compatriots."

"Why didn't we just call Lestrade?"

"I didn't have a case from them in three weeks. I'm not about to hand over the fun part of this one. Don't worry. I texted him once we saw enough to be sure of who it is we're dealing with. We just need to distract them."

I feel bad about what I did next. I never should have let him go in there alone. He disappeared into the attic room, and I kept my eyes on the tunnels behind us. I strained my ears, listening to their soft conversation. I knew what was going on in there. I wasn't worried. Sherlock was explaining to this thug his own plan, and in turn he was demanding to how how Sherlock knew. I concentrated on the tunnels.

Until I stopped hearing their voices, that is. Things went quiet, and then there was an ominous shuffling on the other side of the door. I panicked. I rushed through that door and flew to the two of them in one movement. The gang boss had Sherlock by the neck with one beefy arm, and with the other he was reaching for a knife on a nearby table. I hit him before he had the chance. The force broke his hold on Sherlock. He fell to the floor, gasping for air, but more or less fine.

I, however, was not so lucky. I had caught hold of the assailant, and he was desperate to be rid of me. We thrashed around the room, with me hanging on for dear life and him desperately trying to shake me.

There is a reason why gangsters are not widely known for their intelligence. In a stroke of idiocy, the gang boss flailed us toward the open dumb waiter. He swung around, intending, I think, to shake me off of him and down the shaft of the elevator. We both toppled in.

I landed with a sickening crunch, with the all his beefy weight on me. I may have cushioned most of his fall, but his head was not so lucky as his bulk. He hit it on the side of the shaft as we fell, and was bleeding freely on me. I could see across the room the slight movement of the thugs waking up at the racket the two of us made. I struggled to free my arm, and hastily closed the doors of the dumb waiter, to buy us some time. The exertion was too much for me, though. The intense pain in my leg crashed down on me, and I blacked out.

When I came too, we were being dragged out of the dumb waiter shaft by a pair of young paramedics. I could see Sherlock talking to Lestrade over their shoulders. He looked as though he had been in a fight with a wild and rabid pack of animals; I later learned that he had gotten into a violent boxing match with the thugs in the cellar to keep them from discovering me. Upon seeing me awake again, he dropped his conversation with Lestrade and rushed to my side.

"Are you alright, John?"

"No," was all I could manage before blacking out again. The pain in my leg tripled on being moved, and it was too much. When I woke up again, I was in the hospital, bandaged extensively and looking worse for wear. I did not see Sherlock again until I was released back to Baker Street. According to the nursing staff, a tall and pale man professing to be my brother, "Harry," had visited me every evening when he was sure that I'd be asleep

That absolute idiot. There was no reason to spy on me, and even less to avoid me. If he knew me at all he'd know that I am grateful for what he did for me in there. I'm a grown man. I made the decision to go on cases with him. He's an insecure idiot.

He's yelling rebuttals at me now. I'm terrified of whatever he's done to my computer to allow him to read my posts as I type them. I'M STILL NOT SPEAKING TO YOU.

Nope. I mean every word.

Of course I forgive you. How could I be angry with the man who saved me from a room full of gangsters?

It's not your fault that I fell. I'd do it again.

Of course I mean that.

Oh, for Christ's sake, Sherlock. I tackle a thug down the shaft of a dumbwaiter for you, and this is the conversation we're having? Of course we're friends. You're my closest friend.

I was joking. I'm sorry. Thank you for caring for me. It is what friends do. I appreciate it very much.

Ok. You can come back in.

Of course I mean it. You can sit on my bed and everything.

 

You know, it's not so bad, this injury thing. It's extra nice when you have a flatmate to order around. I might make a habit of falling off of things in the pursuit of justice from now on.  
Of course I don't mean that, Sherlock. Quit snooping.

**Author's Note:**

> This is my fist attempt at writing fanfic! Please be gentle. I bruise easy.


End file.
